


Works Cited

by Moonsheen



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/pseuds/Moonsheen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Write clearly, Orran Durai, and always remember to cite your source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Works Cited

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thanks go out to everyone who listened to me moan over how to get this story just right. This is set post-game, and for the sake of what's freshest in the mind all names of characters and places are coming from the recent PSP remake and/or Final Fantasy XII. Apologies go out to the general populace and Great Britain. I'm sorry for riffing on your history guys, but Yasumi Matsuno totally did it first.
> 
> Written for Puel

 

 

_**Forward** : In my many years of research no document has been quite as strange and fragmented as the uncovered pages of the Durai Report. Orran Durai was a man who particularly prided himself for thoroughness of all he ever endeavored to accomplish, this is no exception.  
  
_

Unfortunately, it has left me with a very vast body of work and very little idea of where to begin. Durai began his research disjointedly, early in his career under King Delita. It seems as though he started it at first primarily on whim, or on whim of Queen Ovelia, with whom he was known to be close. It was only later that he devoted much of his time and resources into the pursuit of the truth. Compilation of the information he had gathered over these fractured years took a half-decade to put together into one body of work. It seems, however messy the process was, my ancestor got his story. Any apparent exaggeration is unlikely on his part. Orran was an intelligence officer and the royal astrologist by trade, imagination would have been rather bad for his career. We must therefore go on the assumption that any flaws in the narrative come not from the one who penned them, but from those he interviewed in the process of his research. The list of which is long and, sadly, as of yet incomplete...  
  


Before I begin however, I would like to make a brief note on names. Early translation of Middle Ivalicean script has sought multiple renderings for the names of parties involved. There are at least two renderings of every name (i.e. Orlan Durai, Olan Durai) and each one of them is, technically, correct when matched with our modern dialects. However, for the sake of simplicity, and to distance myself from scholars who have previous tackled this subject, personage and place shall be rendered as close to the Middle Ivalicean form as can be managed.  
  


In a no means complete list:  
  


Olan Durai - Orran Durai 

Balmafula Lenando - Valmafra Lenande 

Delita Hyral (Haeral, Herial) - Delita Heiral 

Cidolfus Orlandu -- Cidolfus Orlandeau 

Balbanes Beoulve - Barbaneth Beoulve 

Volmav Tingel - Folmarv Tengille 

Murond - Mullonde 

Igros - Eagrose 

Bethla - Besselat  
  


Etc, etc. Permit this scholar his linguistic eccentricities. After all, they should be a small price to pay, when one is searching for the Truth. - A.J. Durai  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part I**  
  


_Much has made of the relationship between Orran Durai and the young queen, Ovelia Atkascha, many citing the records of their close wartime correspondence as evidence of an affair. This is unlikely, as Durai spent most of this period either working behind enemy lines as intelligence for the Southern Sky banner, or under arrest after the Battle of Besselat. Letters between the two were signed affectionately, but it is no fonder than was the mode of the era, Ovelia addressing Durai as `my dear cousin' and `brother to my heart'. A name which denotes very little romantic sentiment! Nevertheless, what is known that post-war Durai's duties turned to the rooting and defamation of all the secrets abound in the fallen house Larg, and the Beoulve by extension. It seems however that these orders did not come strictly from the new king, and Durai granted the queen many personal favors as knight and friend..._   
  
  
  


Ovelia had been sequestered away for what would be the last few weeks. This made it very difficult to come speak with her, even at her request. Orran had to maneuver his way around three ladies and several guards before even making it to her apartments, and when he got there a very broad Lady of the Bedchamber stopped him. No amount of titles and authorizations could seem to breach this last line of defense. He was saved by the queen herself, her voice carried from her private chambers.  
  


"Lord Durai is welcome, Lady Galkova." The woman looked as though she might argue. "Please, allow me this one small thing. It has been so quiet, and you must be missing your husband, stationed as he is out in the courtyard." The woman vanished from Orran's path at once. He was ushered inside.  
  


"Lord Durai always welcome," said the queen and, when the door shut and they were alone, she looked up at him her eyes immediately went misty. "Oh, Orran. You look so haggard."  
  


Orran blinked. Of all comments, this was one most unexpected. He had not thought much of what the effect a month in a dungeon might have on his _appearance_. "I am well," he assured, and meant it. Ovelia did not look relieved. In fact, her shoulders went tighter.  
  


"You should not have been kept there for so long--" she stopped. Her eyes blazed dangerously. "You should not have been kept there at _all_." She stopped again, flames dying as fast as they'd flared. "Pray, forgive me. Had I been able--"  
  


"T'would have served no one before the war's end," said Orran, before she could do more. He always hated it when women felt the need to apologize. He hated it more from her, heavy with child and far too bright for all that Glabadosian guilt. "There is much to be said about that husband of yours, but unfortunately his timing is despicably good." 

This seemed to calm the queen. She eased her back off the door, and her expression went from tight and stricken to only a little longsuffering. It was some improvement. "It is, isn't it?" Her hands came over her abdomen. Orran coughed discreetly. He'd been happy to ignore this particular issue. It was not something polite company remarked upon.  
  


"Ah, hem...you look well," he said. Ovelia looked tired and puffy, and from the way her eyebrow rose, she knew it too.  
  


"Delita will be sending you to Eagrose," she said. She drew her cloak tight. It was late in the season and the drafts were bad, even with the fire going. "You've been cordial, so I know he has not told you yet."  
  


"It's winter."  
  


"I know," said Ovelia, sympathetic.  
  


"It's the province of _Gallionne_." Gallionne was quite the ride.  
  


"I know," said Ovelia, still sympathetic, but with a stronger air of business as she fingered her drawstrings. She added: "And I want you to go as well."  
  


Which put an end to the good rant he was about to have at her husband's expense.  
  


"I'm sure you know why he wants someone to go," continued the queen.  
  


"They were Larg's lands. Of course I do." Getting Orran out of the public eye for a bit was just an added bonus, really. "I can go where others dare not. But that is his reasoning. I'm curious as to yours."  
  


The corners of the queen's eyes crinkled. "They are...complicated." On the bureau in her chamber, there was a small altarpiece. It was a diptych, a hinged painting with a carved backing. One side held the image of Ultima, the Atkascha family's patron saint. The other held an image of Chaos, Ovelia's own personal saint, under whose season she'd been born. One of the candles in front of it had gone out. She lit it now, holding a hand over it to cradle the light. "I wish for information. Pertaining in particular to a couple of individuals who would be listed in the Eagrose ledgers, be they still in tact. Something has been bothering me, and I would very much like to see it paid some mind."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part II**  
  


_In spite of whatever history has managed to obscure, the fact is this: The War of the Lions left the Glabadosian Church in a absolute disarray, no longer the controlling, unified state that it had been for most of the Middle Ages. It is this crippling of its central power that lent strength to the Iocus Reformation, centuries later. As it stood, the Church had lost most of its prominent chain of command, existing afterwards as a set of separate magistrates. They were constantly at odds with each other, a condition most likely encouraged by the new king, who had no reason to restore a potential compromise to his swiftly growing powerbase. He did allow one particular magistrate to reform under his rule, however. The Mullonde Knights Templar, which had been nearly completely decimated over the course of the previous two years...records show that in the fall of the year that this decision was made, Orran Durai made a discreet trip out of state to the Holy City itself..._   
  
  
  
  


Before the war, the seas over the sunken province Mullonde were always taken by great winds. It howled through every gap in wall and ship and sail. The theologians liked to make much of this, believing it a sign from God, still angry for the death of His mortal son. Whatever the case, after the war, those winds had died, leaving the Mullonde waters as dead and glassy as a stagnant pond. Travel to the Holy City took more effort than it used to. Where once a well-balanced sail could take you in less than an hour, five acolytes at the oars now huffed and puffed to do the job. Orran stood at the bow of one such boat. When they had launched it had been late afternoon. Now it was well into night, and the seas looked like a slick of tar, speckled by the lamps hanging from the sides, and the occasional fleck of stars. It slid by with each labored plunge of the oars. Orran's gaze was set skywards.  
  


"When I graduated from Gariland, the Church offered me a post with them," he said, "Mayhaps I should have considered. These are the clearest skies I have ever seen."  
  


From behind, there came a velvety laugh. The witch Valmafra, legs stretched out over the front bench, shook her head.  
  


"You'd not have liked it," she said. "They'd keep you well under the roofs."  
  


"And being ever questioning wouldn't help my career, I suppose."  
  


"No."  
  


"Hm." In the vague space between the night sea and the night sky, a lump had begun to resolve itself. As they drew near, it grew less like a lump-like and more jagged. It turned into something dark, and stony, vaulting high. The water pushed quietly against the shape of a pier, and on this pier a slim figure waited.  
  


"Ser Tengille," hailed Orran. The boat bumped into port. He leapt from the hull to the dock before even the lines were lashed.  
  


The woman dangled a lantern level with her face, one look at her deep set eyes and stern nose told Orran his guess had been a good one.  
  


"So. The king has sent you at his behest."  
  


"His amusement, more like."  
  


"I see," said Meliadoul, and for a moment, Orran thought the daughter would prove as rigid as the sire, but her mouth twitched. "Well met, Lord Durai. And..." The flicker of mirth in her eyes faded as they fell on the witch. "You."  
  


"Have we met?" asked Valmafra, quite officially dead to the world at large and flicking her hair over her shoulder. Somehow even under the splash of the oars, it had stayed dry.  
  


"I suppose not," said Meliadoul, wisely. She lowered her lantern. In the inky night, parts of the templar seemed to disappear as she moved. She wore all black. A black habit, a black woman's surcoat, all fitted around black armor that gave her a broad-shouldered look. The only pale thing about her was her face. Even that was marred by her dark eyes, and the straggle of dark hair creeping out from under her coverings. All this cloth--which looked like it was made from several layers of velvet--seemed like it ought to have been unwieldy, but Meliadoul Tengille moved as though it were the sheerest of silk. She led them easily through a door in one of the towers, and up a tight, winding staircase, lighting torches with her lamp as they went.  
  


"You must forgive the tattiness." She passed the lantern over a particularly thick veil of cobwebs. "The main concourse is much grander."  
  


"Pity we're not here on the record," remarked Orran, drier than Valmafra's hair. He moved quickly, with the witch stepping on his shadow he did not see fit to linger. The walls were several meters thick to muffle the wind's cries, with the wind now dead, the only sound was the smack of their boots, the crack of fire, and the sound of something dripping just out of the light's span.  
  


The templar took them to a cell. A modest one, she explained. Orran felt this was a somewhat loose interpretation of the term `modest'. It was not, he discovered, the same comforts afforded by monks of Orbonne. There were too many gilt moldings for that. It looked more like a Lesalian salon. Meliadoul bid a drowsy acolyte to fetch them some repast. Orran sat down on an ornately carved stool. Valmafra stretched herself out along a sofa, all the curved lines of her laid out without a care. He did his best to ignore this, focusing on the much more chaste Woman of God as he asked, "How flies Mullonde?"  
  


"Fractured," Meliadoul replied. "Since his Holiness' death. The bureaus are being run currently by loose council. They meet tomorrow. I expect you won't be attending."  
  


"Most attentively," murmured Valmafra.  
  


"There will be no resolution," said Orran, still ignoring _her_.  
  


Meliadoul looked very tired. "Is that how His Majesty would like it? ...Then no, there won't be. There's little we can do to counter him. He was _our_ man for the job after all." For a moment she looked very wry.  
  


Orran said, "He did make that very public knowledge."  
  


"Yes."  
  


Orran said, "What can you tell me about the heretic."  
  


...to the woman's eternal credit, her hands only tightened slightly. She held a firm grip on the cup she had ventured to drink. Her face did not change. "You'll have to be more specific, my lord," she said. She sounded more tired than before, tired, and very uninterested.  
  


"Will I?"  
  


"There are a lot of heretics." The templar's lip curled. "We've not been lax in naming those."  
  


"Guess for me."  
  


"Beowulf Kadmus has been cleared of all charges."  
  


"Guess again."  
  


"The Baron Fairlund's case is still pending. As is the Count Orlandeau's."  
  


Orran's eyes narrowed. He felt very little guilt as he leveled her with his most fierce stare, and clarified: "There is only one heretic that I mean. The one involved in the Riovanes Affair. You'd know something of him, wouldn't you? You were hunting him, were you not?"  
  


Meliadoul went stiff at the name. What little color was in her face drained away. "That heretic..." she said distantly. Her left index finger gave a jump. "Ah. That one. My investigation was inconclusive. I lost him in Limberry. You can read the report. The Inquisition gleaned whatever answers they could, and it was not much."  
  


"...what unnecessary trouble," said Orran, not unkindly. He noticed for the first time that she had taken care not to bend that hand so much. "You're up for candidacy as the next Lord Commander of the Mullonde Order, are you not?" She stared. "Or am I mistaken? Please, share with me what you do know. You don't act as though that one was responsible for your brother's death."  
  


"He wasn't," said the templar with a certainty that sounded smooth and calm, even as her face twisted in a deep rage that could never have existed in her father's marble features. "And you exploit Isilud's memory a tad too carelessly for my liking."  
  


"And you my father's," Orran shot back. Meliadoul looked shamed somewhere in the corner of her stiff jaw. "So then, what can you tell me?"  
  


"Nothing conclusive, as I have said, beyond that he is clear of those murders. That is all. I do not know why you bother to ask. There is little to say."  
  


"I disagree," said Orran. "Tell me more."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part III**  
  


_In Year 1312, Middle Valendian, Queen Ovelia passed a number of bills in Parliament authorizing a large scale overhaul of the Ivalicean dams. The majority of which had suffered great damage during the floods of the last two seasons. This is one of the few accomplishments of the Heiral reign outright accredited to the queen herself, having given rise to a series of mechanical gates -the likes of which having not been seen since Archadian times. At this same time Orran Durai is mentioned in contemporary gossip columns as having been quite absent from king's court._   
  
  
  
  


A gentleman from Goug met another gentleman from Goug, and words were exchanged. Whatever words these were didn't matter, as one gentleman smiled, nodded, pulled a gun out of his coat and fired.  
  


The ball of ice missed its target and shattered on the post just next to Orran's head.  
  


"Oh, damn," he said. A bit of the excess glittered on his cheek. "What's this about?"  
  


The returning shot, an appropriately contrary ball of fire, lit a cart across the road. It dutifully exploded, sending market-goers scattering and the chocobo once tied to it galloping down the street. It also dislodged four men from the roof of the building it had been parked next to. They had guns as well.  
  


"Guild war, most like," said Valmafra, laying down the knife she'd been inspecting at the vendor. The shop keep had fled. "Machinists are sensitive about their creative property."  
  


Four _more_ men appeared from under an archway near the pair. Three of them had guns. One of them, just to be different, didn't have a gun. This one had a Bigger Gun.  
  


"That is the stupidest thing that I have ever heard," said Orran. A young man, an unfortunate passerby who'd somehow missed the resounding crunch of the first shot, froze in the middle of the crossing. He had fair hair and a thin build, and he saw the Bigger Gun and looked alarmed. He reached for his belt.  
  


Valmafra rolled her eyes. "As though mages are not known to kill each other over improper citation." But Orran was not listening. He squinted at the passerby. Then, the Bigger Gun fired. A huge tangle of lightning bloomed from the bucket-wide barrel. It took a chunk out of the street. Bits of cobblestone rained down on everyone. Valmafra lifted the end of her cape over her eyes and gave the astrologist a look.  
  


"Stupid, and highly illegal!" He actually took note around this point. "All right, all right." He glanced at the angle of the shadows, did a few quick calculations in his head, and the world stopped. A deep hush came over that particular avenue, as though no one breathed. No one did. He turned to the witch. "Happy?"  
  


"Overjoyed," she replied, tonelessly. Orran wasn't looking at her. He also wasn't looking at the frozen plume of fire coming from one of the (many) gun barrels. He wasn't paying much attention to the man stopped in the act of casting some nasty spell, either. He walked out into the road and stopped in front of the passerby.  
  


"Hm," said Orran. "I _have_ seen you." He subtracted a little out of the field and the young man snapped back into motion. He saw the large man suddenly in front of him and jumped, fumbling his weapon.  
  


"Shit! You're Orran Durai!"  
  


"Well met, Mustadio Bunsansa." Orran seized him by the arm.  
  
  
  
  


The Bunansa workshop was a mess of parts stashed into several levels of house, access to which was entrusted to a device that was sensibly called a `lift'. It was a metal platform, with a number of sigils carved into its surface. It was set on spring work which folded and stretched in accordance with a series of crystals set on either end. Valmafra tapped the sigil with a boot and looked bored. Orran watched the machinist work the device with great interest.  
  


"I see now why the queen is so fascinated by your work." He told him about the commission. Mustadio, in spite of the obvious nerves he had shown in bringing them, brightened immediately.  
  


"Really? Ovelia? That's good of her. She is a lovely woman, the princes--I mean. Queen. Yes! Queen now. Royal highness." The nerves were back.  
  


They stepped off the lift. The top level of the Bunansa workshop was possibly the messiest of them all. It was a single large room, and the items on the benches were very large and knotted with each other. They were all made of metal, save the items on the smaller bench towards the center. That looked like afternoon tea.  
  


"Entertaining?" asked Valmafra. Mustadio blushed. It might have been a prying question. It might have also had something to do with the cut of her dress and the fact that she was now standing next to him.  
  


"Ah, no. Just Father and I. The apprentices have the day off. Not that it stops them from creeping back to raid our larder."  
  


"So you know Her Majesty?" asked Orran.  
  


"Yes," said Mustadio, shoving sheets of metal out of the way to clear a path. "I mean. Rather. I know of her. She's very kind to men like me isn't she? Very merciful. ...ah, damn." He saw the look on the man's face.  
  


"You're lying. Tell me about Ramza Beoulve. You met her while in his company, correct?"  
  


The machinist turned. He'd picked up a wrench. He brought it down on a nest of wire with a loud crunch. "My apologies, but I've no idea where he's run off to?"  
  


"So you believe he's alive?"  
  


Mustadio turned a darker red and knocked a large portion of scrap off the bench.  
  


"My _friend_ , I don't know why you think I'd think one thing or the other. Or anything really. Except for the fact that you're Orran Durai, goddamn you, and your memory is too good." He glared. "Besselat was a busy place, you know. You could've been good to us all and forgotten."  
  


"The Battle of Besselat was not so long ago," Orran paused. "Nor was the last time I saw you shoot a thief between the eyes."  
  
The corner of Mustadio's mouth turned up. "Well," he said, vaguely pacified. "Yes. That was an awfully good shot."  
  
  
  
  


"He was a good one, that Ramza Beoulve. Although he wasn't calling himself that when I met him. He had one of those silly Gallionese accents, you know, where you stress on your `aaaa's that certain way and you happen to wave your wrists around like this and look all stuffed up `round the--nevermind." Mustadio dropped his hands. "He yelled louder than a lion to the point he occasionally required candies and sometimes he snored. Also, his hair just did that naturally. Also--"  
  


Orran cut him off with a sharp wave. "Where did you meet him?"  
  


"Lionel. When he was escorting the queen to Cardinal Delacroix. He was a mercenary, you see, though _wasn't_ being paid for this. As far as I could tell, he'd had a dispute with his previous band over the nature of the contract. He'd gone is own way."  
  


"Who was he serving under?"  
  


"Oh, damned if I recall. The bastard ambushed us several times. Gaff garr? Gaffer?"  
  


"Gaffgarion," said Orran. He leaned forward thoughtfully. "Of the Eastern Sky. The Beoulves had him under their pay during the war. So then, Ramza broke with him. Do you know anything of the work he did before?"  
  


"I only met up with him after. He wasn't particularly forthcoming about the before. Something was dogging him, then--not that it stopped him from doing the right thing. Or being a bit of a priss--but mainly not from doing the right thing," Mustadio straightened up and shot them both an accusing glare. His thumbs were skittering over the unloaded barrel of his gun, which he bounced on one knee. "So if you're here to drag him through the muck some more I--"  
  


"Nothing like that," said the astrologist. He lifted his hand again. Mustadio's eyes trailed it warily, expecting to lose another minute of his life, which Orran found flattering, but a little exasperating. "I just want to know about _him_."  
  


"Your table is set for four," said Valmafra, suddenly. "You, your father, and...?" Orran blinked and looked over at the spread. It was. He looked her, and then Mustadio. He made sure to make it an especially pointed look, but for once, the young man didn't look particularly on edge at all, though he fiddled with a stray screw resting next to one of the plates.  
  


"Didn't I already say? Day off doesn't stop those apprentices from raiding our stores."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part IV**  
  


_In Year 1313, at the close of the long, posthumous trial of Cidolfus Orlandau. Orran Durai was summoned to a private audience with the king. The exact nature of their relationship has forever puzzled historians. Very few accounts of direct communication between one another survive, quite the contrast to Durai's extensive correspondence with the queen. Given Delita's role in the course of the War of the Lions -- his early promotions, the favor he enjoyed at expense of the Count, and of course the seizing of the Southern Sky - any relations between the two, as politically convenient as they might have been, would have been tenuous at best..._   
  
  
  
  


He stood in the audience chamber and realized that with the pageboys gone, he was entirely alone--save for the king, who stood at the top of the steps, on the opposite end of the hall. This was what worried him. Arms folded behind his back, chin raised, Delita looked particularly regal and it set Orran on edge. He did not like to be left alone with him. The door shut like a coffin's lid.  
  


Nevertheless, he would be brave. "Why?"  
  


Delita turned, looking perplexed. He stood between two banners. One was red, bearing the black lion. One was blue, bearing the white. They were displayed proudly, ready to remind all who'd conquered them both. "That's a very vague question," said the man himself. Orran wanted to punch him.  
  


"You know what I am asking."  
  


The king tipped his head, as though weighing the potential of having him squirm on a hook a little longer. Then, with infuriating ease, he shrugged. "Why not? The late Count's will was quite specific. `All properties of the Orlandeau estate are hereby granted unto Orran Durai, child of my spirit, if not my flesh'."  
  


Orran shut his eyes. He could nearly hear the voiced reading it as it was penned. "I already knew of this."  
  


"Yet you look so grim. Count is quite the title. And you're about to come into some money, as well."  
  


"It is my father's title."  
  


Delita peered at him as he said this. And Orran, well-trained to pick these little things, thought he saw an echo of some old recognition pass over the young usurper's face. It seemed all at once fond, amused, and a little frustrated. "And now it is yours. `Why'...what, Orran?"  
  


"You had him framed for murder."  
  


"Did I?"  
  


"You killed a fake in his place."  
  


"An interesting theory."  
  


His voice rose. "You took his rank, his favor, you took it all. You had him painted as a lord slayer, a turncloak, and one of the most despicable degree...and yet..." Orran bowed his head in faint deference, and it was the one time he would allow this in private with this particular man. "He is being entombed with all honors. He is yet spoken of as a hero." He looked up, demanding answers, willing them to come. Delita's face, damn him, was a mask.  
  


"The church inquiry has ruled that Count Orlandeau acted in accordance to the Lord's will. He did this in the face of a lesser lord whom was no longer in possession of all of his faculties. In lieu of all of this, a pardon is well in order."  
  


Orran squared his shoulders. "In lieu of...the church is fractured. I have only brought you that information myself. We both know they haven't the head to make any decisions without the approval of a single man."  
  


"Oh? And who might this man be?"  
  


Orran looked away. It was terribly rude, potentially life threatening, but he didn't care. He hadn't exactly come in on bended knee. "...how does this benefit you? It was you who slew the imposter. The reports on it are vague, but it is not so difficult to divine. They sing songs of my father's valor. They call him the last of his kind...every breath that flatters his legend detracts from your own. You took such _care_ to craft it. Why jeopardize it now?"  
  


Delita shifted his weight and on instinct Orran glanced for a window, ready to check the arrangement of the evening sky--but the curtains were drawn, and Delita left his weapon untouched. He smiled, which was nearly like the flash of a blade.  
  


"You miscalculate, Orran Durai," said the king, calmly, "in assuming that all I do is for my benefit. Do I give that impression?"  
  


"A bit, yes," bit out his court astrologist. Delita laughed, and walked down the steps, trailing cape behind him. Without the pageboys to lift it, it would be picking up every bit of grit on the stone and in the rugs. Orran didn't feel any need to point this out. Delita stopped very near. His eyes were not quite level, but close. The king was not as large as Orran, but neither was he a small man.  
  


"Nothing for it. Let me tell you a tale," said Delita. "Once, a very long time ago, a Gallionese nobleman came to Zeltennia."  
  


"What's the point of this?"  
  


The king ignored him. "He was very young, but very accomplished, and he knew it. He was so sure of his greatness that when he met a young Zeltennian even more accomplished, only slightly older, and in possession of an enchanted sword..."  
  


Orran closed his mouth. He stood still and solemn, all at once.  
  


"Well. The young Gallionese noble burned with a youthful envy. Determined to prove his worth--and perhaps his superiority--to a foreign court, he challenged him on the spot. On the appointed date, he lost almost as quickly, badly injured, without landing even a single blow."  
  


"Reckless of him," murmured Orran.  
  


"And arrogant. Shamed for this, he admitted defeat, but begged one favor: he would admit to all that the Zeltennian lad was his better. But, pray let him at least say he nicked him, so that even were his gall to make him a laughingstock, he could save at least some face. His opponent agreed, smeared blood on his arm, and placed it into a sling. He healed his challenger's wounds. He laughed over a lucky shot, the Gallionese noble laughed over being rightfully trounced, and they were the dearest friends from thenceforth." Delita watched the older man, something expectant in the way he arched his brow.  
  


Orran said, "I know this story. But I don't know that last part. My father left that bit out."  
  


Delita smiled. It was not his normal one. It looked considerably less likely to gut a man, and there was something nearly warm flickering in that black gaze. "You wouldn't have. The Count Orlandeau stayed true to his word to his very last."  
  


He swept past Orran all at once. Orran had barely the time to tense up--but Delita kept walking. Orran found he was quite lacking in puncture wounds. The king stopped at the door. He had the look of one calling back something from very far away.  
  


"...but Barbaneth Beoulve had an unfortunate tendency towards the whole truth. Pity, none of his natural sons saw fit to follow this example. He tried so very hard to teach them that one should always repay their debts. He also talked a great deal when he was into his cups, but that is another story entirely."  
  


Orran whipped around. "How on earth--"  
  


"How indeed," said Delita. The door shut behind him.  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part V**  
  


_Trade routes with Ordallia reopened after the war, a move that was considered widely controversial but desperately important in the reestablishing of Ivalice's image as a sovereign and capable nation. Trade flourished, under carefully maintained tariffs, and a small but capable merchant marine force grew. A whole number of new devices and new peoples found their way into Ivalice in this period, but it was an especially good time for scholars and mages, who had access to ingredients that had previously only been available on only the blackest of market..._   
  
  


In the port city of Sal Ghidos, it was said that there lay lodged in a roadside a sword that nearly no man could lift. Naturally, this meant all the locals had tried their luck at it: from the young dockhand to the old fishmonger. Only one man could manage it. The court astrologist was not this man, and he had no intention of trying to be, but he was curious, and the sundries shop up a ways happened to be hawking some old Archadian Star Charts for a song. They did not seem to realize what they had. Orran saw no fault in relieving them of such burdensome stock.  
  


"Flower for a gil, ser?" asked a girl, two steps out of the shop. She was pretty, with a bright face and a ribbon in her hair. Orran barely noticed her.  
  


"No thank you," he said, because he had been taught proper manners at some point in his life. Somehow the girl was still in his path, looking up at him through curls that twisted down her shoulders like ivy.  
  


"Are you sure, ser?" she asked. Standing on her toes. Her eyes were a sharp green. They held a certain glint.  
  


Well, thought Orran, they're the queen's favorite color at least. Her majesty had just been delivered of a howling prince. Her confinement would soon end. Orran stared at the bouquet of reds grasped in his fist and wondered what had just happened. He cast a quick Stop spell on them blossoms. That would keep them fresh.  
  


"No matter," he muttered. There was the rumored sword up ahead. It was a sword. It was buried in the stone curb. It was large, square, bolted, and looked nothing liked Orran had hoped it might.  
  


"I am sorry, Father," he sighed, and suddenly found himself irritated at the lack of Valmafra's sharp retorts. He'd grown so used to them that muttering aloud seemed strange.  
  


"Bloody witch," grumbled the Count, touching the top of the sword. It didn't shift under his weight at all, even when he jiggled it.  
  


"You bothering her?" said a pile of cloth in a door way. Orran looked up and realized it was a person. A vagrant tucked in the frame. His face was hidden by a mess of stiff, fair hair.  
  


"Beg pardon?"  
  


"The girl," said the vagrant, unfolding slowly. There was something queer about him. His clothes were dark and shapeless, and he spoke with an odd accent, but what really struck Orran was the space under his messy bangs. It seemed to be...glowing. A blue gleam tangled softly in his eyelashes.  
  


Orran held up the bouquet. The vagrant nodded, satisfied. "Acquaintances, then?"  
  


The vagrant turned on the stoop. He rested his elbows on his knees. He wore a strange tunic. It had no sleeves, so that one could clearly see the knots of muscle in a pair of formidable, if pale, arms. In a peculiar concession to some of the coolness of the climate, he wore gloves with this.  
  


"Bodyguard," said the mercenary.  
  


"Hm." With how reasonable the girl's prices were, it was surprising she had the coin to spare. He must not have been selling his services for very much. Orran flicked the pommel of the sword and asked, in jest: "This is yours, then?"  
  


In answer, the mercenary stood, stretched, and lifted the sword in one hand. It was made of a thick, dented metal and was easily over five feet in length. The mercenary twirled it over his head, rested it over his shoulder, and grinned crookedly.  
  


His eyes _did_ glow. They glowed like hot blue stars. There could not be anything else like it in the world. "I see," said the astrologist, forcing himself not to gape. "You must be from very far away."  
  


The flower seller's bodyguard stabbed the sword back into the stone. "Yeah. Something like that."  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part VI**  
  


_In 1316, Orran received this curious missive: a gift of 100,000 gil, and a silver sextet, courtesy of the recently reinstated Knight Templar Beowulf Kadmus, who thanked him most profusely for the `safe escort of our tender and most beloved Lady to the land which we both hold so near and dear to Our hearts.'_   
  
  
  
  


The upshot was that the demons were dead.  
  


The downside was that there was now a very naked woman sitting in the summoning circle. Valmafra, in a surprising act of charity, took off her cape and offered it to her. Considering the cut of her gown, this left two _nearly_ naked woman in the vicinity. Orran turned away.  
  


"This is what you had it mind, then?  
  


Valmafra snorted. "No, but it has served hasn't it?" The woman blinked at them both, turning the cape over in her hands, puzzling over which way to most strategically cover herself. One would not assume her capable of killing a slew of otherworldly demons with just one breath. One would also assume someone else must have knocked out the necromancer in a single blow. One would be wrong.  
  


"And fortunes smiles on us for that. Tell me, do glyphs always offer such a...varied result? I'm not sure what you were using as a source, and I'm not sure of the..." He had started to look to the woman. He looked away again. "You ought to specify more. Though I'm glad we at least got a woman who breathes holy fire and not, I suppose, a fish."  
  


Valmafra shot him a tired look. "That would've been very unlikely. It is wrought in Dark and meant to call dragons, since you asked."  
  


"Dragons."  
  


"Yes."  
  


Orran stared. "How would that have helped?"  
  


Valmafra shrugged. "Dragons are large. And unfond of demons."  
  


"And so very inclined to help us?"  
  


"Occasionally."  
  


"Because dragons are absolutely charitable beings that enjoy being summoned from their deep caverns in the heart of volcanos?"  
  


"A dragon would have blocked that passage."  
  


"And then burned us both!"  
  


"I would not have done that," offered the woman.  
  


"My thanks, m'lady," said Orran absently. He rounded on the witch. "Incinerated us. Or just accidentally bowled us over with a lash of its tail. Or eaten us."  
  


Valmafra got to erasing the circle with a smear of her thumb. "Now you're just being dramatic."  
  


The woman chimed in, "And dragons think humans taste horrible. Most wild things think so."  
  


Orran threw up his hands. "Well, I suppose it's just as well we got a naked woman instead. Except hardly, since what on earth is the poor woman supposed to wear?" He'd been trying not to think on this, but it would have come back to that eventually. "I suppose a dragon would have been less likely to catch a chill."  
  


The woman said, "And I won't, seeing as I am one."  
  


The witch and the astrologist both looked at her.  
  


"Dragon _kin_ , anyway," said Reis, self-consciously.  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part VI**  
  


_Baron Chordry, a vassal formerly in service of the Duke Barinten, attempted to press forward in expansion of the Fovoham farmlands, including a most ambitious project to `revitalize and reform' the province's vast deserts into areas of more serviceable space. Unfortunately in his efforts to pave the way for such a whim, he stumbled upon the ruins of an old Zeklaus settlement, the native population having returned in years prior. The conflict escalated quickly, and Count Durai was dispatched. It was done with shocking immediacy for what was considered an afterthought in the history of the Heiral crown..._  
  
  
  
  


Orran woke up in the dark. His head ached and his arm tingled in that way it did when it had not long ago been broken. Outside the desert winds yowled, sliding little jittering bits of sand into the... he looked around. It was a small dwelling, made of clay bricks. He was lying on a prickly mattress, which had been thrown across the floor of it. It felt embroidered, which surprised him.  
  


"It hurts, yes?" A girl crouched at the foot of the mattress. "Too much to be sure of yourself. Too much for magic. It is what my brother is good at, breaking faith."  
  


Ah. He recognized the voice. It was the white blur he'd fought out at the village border. It'd been a strange affair. First: he had been consulting a map as to the existence of the homes in front of them. Second: he had been arguing with Valmafra as to the existence of the homes in front of them. Third: his shoulder and the sands next to them had exploded in perfect shining points of _pain_ , from whence came a fight, an angry young man standing on a roof, and a girl with a pole and a snarl, who'd somehow managed to slip under his calculations. It happened, rarely. Orran never liked it when it did. He liked it less when it did under such dire circumstance. Like when the girl aimed a high kick at his chin. He seized her ankle in one hand--the other was useless--and she had immediately produced a number of small knives that had nearly severed his ponytail.  
  


He'd been so busy dealing with these he hadn't thought enough of the young man. That was when they silenced him. And then something struck him in the head, with a loud crack. crack. _crack_.  
  


"T'was bad luck," mumbled Orran, at present. His voice came from far away and wrapped in a sheet. "And where is Valmafra?" He was worried, it occurred to him. It seemed a strange thing to be. The woman had survived worse.  
  


"Somewhere else. Why are you here?" She had abrupt manner. His eyes adjusted, Orran could see her now: short and dark, with a fierce face and black eyes. She rested on one knee, as though ready to launch herself at any moment.  
  


"Rapha Galthena?"  
  


She blinked. She looked marginally less fierce. "Yes?"  
  


"That's why I came," groaned Orran. She was right. It was too much for magic. He didn't have the head for any kind of spell at all. "The dispute was a good excuse, fair enough."  
  


"You came to kill us!" Rapha burst out.  
  


Oh, _honestly_. Orran screwed his eyes shut. "No. I came to you before I came to the Baron, didn't I? The queen is curious as to your circumstance. She is a very fair woman."  
  


" _Lies_ ," hissed the girl. She stood up all at once. She was slim, and wore brief white desert clothes, but Orran could hear the clink of knives on her. He'd grown trained to hear them. Valmafra made the same sounds when she moved suddenly. "No one married to a man like that is fair."  
  


Stars help me, thought Orran. "Forgive her majesty her flaws, but...at least at present the man's hardly her downfall. It's not the birth issue that bothers you, I take it?"  
  


"No. It is the _lies_."  
  


"Fair enough. What lies are we talking about, specifically?"  
  


His casual tone caught off guard. It was hard to be earnest, when your prisoner (for Orran was fairly sure that was what he was) didn't seem to be taking vicious pronouncements as he should. "That...that is... _all of them_. Everything that has happened. Everything that you people are. All of it is a lie. You believe falsehoods. You chase good men to the ends of the earth, and then when you have killed them, you forget them as though they meant nothing!"  
  


"It was not `nothing' he did."  
  


Rapha's eyes were glistening, suddenly. "No! No it was not! Only the small task of saving you all. I could tell you, how he saved you all. Had I not promised. Had Marach not promised, too. And even if I told you, you would not believe me. This is how you repay him. With lies. Lies and lies and that wretched king."  
  


"The queen is true," promised Orran. "She thought him a friend."  
  


"Then why did she marry _him_?"  
  


"For life," whispered Orran. "For the future of this kingdom. From how you speak, you must know what a sacrifice that has been for her."  
  


Rapha sat back down. She crossed her ankles, and put her hands on her knees, and eyed Orran. Her gaze was wary. Orran listened carefully to the sounds from outside the hut. He could hear the scrape of chocobo claws on stone. He could hear people talking in low voices. One of them was a woman. With the way his head rung, he could not make out whether or not it was Valmafra's.  
  


"I would believe you." Her nostrils flared doubtfully. Orran soldiered on, propping himself on one arm. It was the one that had been broken, so it felt very interesting. "Anyone could have been sent to the settle the dispute. _I_ came because of one thing. There is a song you sing to the orphans you care for here. This song has passed to the merchants you allow safe passage. They have carried it to many corners. A Blackram bard got a hold of it. I translated it. A song about a young lion, born in the year of the Ram. It grabbed me."  
  


Rapha Galthena bit the inside of her cheek. "I see," she said. She glanced at the door. It was made from old, blasted wood, and through the cracks one could spot shadows moving around on the other side. It was still day, but late, so the light filtered through had grown red. Her eyes shone in this light, bright and wet. "My brother and I. We sang it. We promised..." She swallowed. Her voice became hard as stone. "He told me to tell the one who came asking for that song to go to Ziekden Fortress. That one would understand it better, if they started there. Starting anywhere else is all wrong. You asked. So I will not tell you things that are false."  
  


"Your brother asked you to say this?"  
  


Rapha said nothing.  
  


Orran launched himself from the mattress, and barreled for the door. His head rang, but no longer with pain. It sounded like revelation. Like church bells. He threw open the door, heart racing.  
  


Valmafra was waiting for him. She stood a few steps from the door, free as anything. She looked untouched save for a bruise on her cheek. This had already begun to fade. She looked nearly relieved to see him. Beside her stood the young man who'd been on the roof. He looked more fierce and disagreeable than his sister, if it were possible, but equally dark and equally formidable. Orran looked at them both and felt at once relieved and very, very foolish. He wasn't sure he wanted to admit what he'd nearly believed in that moment. He also wore only his briefs.  
  


He noticed then: there was not a chocobo in sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Part VII**  
  
 _"But when the pillars of that life came crashing down, I did not stand and watch them fall. I turned, and walked away."--Ramza Beoulve, date unknown._  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It did not snow, though the clouds hung low and grey and ready for it. The dry plains turned to pale rock, and the pale rock turned to a blasted black. The fortress stood ahead. What remained of it, anyway.  
  


"It's as you said," whispered Orran. Valmafra nodded.  
  


"When last I was here, the ruins were still smoking. There were no survivors."  
  


Orran glanced at her.  
  


"None?"  
  


She looked back. "None. Only ghosts remain." She moved to the side as Orran stumbled forward.  
  


"But then, who would have known where the story began? I'm going to take a look."  
  


Valmafra held their mount's reins. "I'm staying here. Too many dead with which to contend."  
  


Orran's interests didn't lie with the dead. He stepped forward across the blasted stone. He walked, first slowly, then brisker as the ruins began to gain clarity on the horizon. Ziekden Fortress, a deep black crumbling skeleton against the grey. Fortress Ziekden, records of which Dycedarg Beoulve had so keenly dismissed. The foundations were still good. A whole wall stood mostly in tact. The king's Privy Council had proposed it be rebuilt. The king turned this down. He set a patrol at the Gallionne border to catch bandits hoping to make a nest of it. Orran had taken care to approach from the Fovoham line.  
  


"Why?" he whispered softly, he looked back. Valmafra's silhouette stood starkly behind him. She barely seemed to move. He felt warmth for this. For a witch, she was a most valuable ally. He was fortunate to have her. He shook himself out of the daze. "Always, why?" He would be so very annoyed if all he found were ash. It seemed a grey enough possibility. Still, a glint caught his eye: something white which caught the light at a distance. Orran broke into a run, swallowing chilled air that tasted like ocean spray. Ahead there was a broken stone stairway that led to nothing. The gleaming came from beneath it. And in the haze of dust blown by a sudden wind, he thought he saw his man: young and strong-shouldered, fair ponytail whipping against his profile, with young, no, old cat-colored eyes--  
  


But when he came to the broken steps, he was alone. A sword lay propped against the bottom step. An old cloak lay pinned under it. They could have been there for years. The cloak was weather beaten and moss grew `round the tip of the sword. Except that dust had not stained the blade. It shone as fresh as the forge, and the ocean breeze had not left the cloak covered in mold. Orran looked at the ornate handle of the weapon, and gasped. He could have been blind, he could have been stark raving mad, but he there was no way in hell that he could not recognize it.  
  


"Excalibur," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_My ancestor's notes grow muddled around this particular juncture. Unfortunate, given his customary clarity of all that came before. Here now I must find myself limited to strictly fact: after the Zeklaus incident, Orran Durai reported directly to the queen. The contents of this conversation have remained lost. He continued for some time in his capacity of Royal Astrologist, of Count of Zeltennia, and general spymaster for the kingdom. His attention to all of these roles waned as the years rolled on, absences from court growing more frequent and less explained. It was only after the royal couple's sudden death due to malady that the reasons for this became clear: a most incendiary document, the contents of which too heretical to name. A church inquiry organized by Letietra Heiral dismissed it, noting it as `a most poorly conceived flight of fancy, the work of a most dangerous mind', and promptly lost it in the vast archives of similarly `poorly conceived' texts. The dangerous mind who had conceived of it was executed, posthaste. Thus the Durai Papers were forgotten, `till a most recent reordering of the church archives uncovered it among a stack of star charts, having been misfiled over five hundred years...  
  
_

Which is, I think, as good a place as any to begin. - A.J. Durai 

 


End file.
